Musical Endeavors: The 23rd Hunger Games
by SassySunshine
Summary: 24 tributes go into the arena, thinking they know how it all goes down. But a twist is thrown their way: either sing on the cue of a bell, or be taken out by the Gamemakers! Will anyone keep their sanity?
1. District 1 Reaping

**It's finally here! Thanks to all of you who submitted a tribute to me, and here's the District 1 Reaping!**

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Musical Endeavors: The 23rd Hunger Games  
by SassySunshine  
District 1 Reaping

_Amanda Faith_

Ugh.

It's _Reaping Day._ I hate today. Today is the day that the terrors the Hunger Games have to bring begin. I groan and yank my sheets off of my bed and head downstairs, with my unkempt and unwashed hair dangling in my face. My mother isn't here; of course she isn't. She's probably out, getting drunk already and leaving me to my own devices. It's been like this, ever since my father left seven years ago, when I was just eleven.

He was a Peacekeeper in our district, and one night somebody came up from behind and attacked him. In the name of self-defense, he shot the guy. And do you know what happened? The guy died. My father only meant to injure him enough so he could get away. But no. The guy my father shot _died._ My father was in shock, and he went home back to my mother and I. My mom was already asleep, knowing he'd be home shortly. I was busy watching reruns of some of my favorite shows when he came in through the door. Before I could say anything, he broke down crying. I knew something was wrong. And he spilled to me. He made me promise not to tell mom, and I did, because he said he would at some point.

Well, some point never came.

He upped and left the next day.

My mother never found out, because back then I was a prim and proper good girl who would keep any promise she made. So my mother turned to drinking. _Drinking._ She left me high and dry. She still was still a trainer down at the training center, but she never really paid me much mind. So I quit the training center at thirteen and I set up practice dummies out in the woods.

Then I realized that was stupid, too.

On the way down to the woods, there would always be this girl with the same name as me. Amanda. She was poor, and for being in District 1, that's unusual. She was downright broke, always messy and on her knees begging for food or money. I'd turned my back on people since my first reaping. She should've known that, since she was there every year. Every time I saw her, I punched her. And I told her off. And since we shared a name, I began to tell everyone to call me by my last name, Faith. That's something the old Amanda Faith would regret. But no, new "Faith No-Last-Name" doesn't care now. One day she got fed up with me, took my knife, and she cut me from my forehead to the end of my chin, right down the middle of my face, and stuck that knife into my stomach, and she left me there to _die._

But I didn't die. She thought I did. So now, I have a scar running all the way down my face.

And during all this, I only had one friend.

Jacob.

I don't know why he was even friends with me. Maybe he liked me. Maybe he pitied me. I don't know. But the last time I talked to him was three months before the incident. One month later, I came looking for him, but he was gone, I was told. His family packed up and moved out of the district. So I was rendered friendless and without a real family.

And now as I sit here, I still don't feel too much regret, but the anger is still there.

Now I'm eighteen. It's the last year I'm eligible for the reaping. After that, I can no longer prove to anyone I'm anything more than scum from the darkest corners of our district. I'm not scum. I'm a shell of a person. I'm a shell of a person and I just darn well show it, unlike some people. I recall a boy who was just like me from our district a few years ago. Nobody liked him, just like nobody likes me. So, he committed suicide. People must think I'm just about ready for suicide, too. But I'm not. Unless you consider volunteering for the Hunger Games suicide.

That's right. I'm volunteering. It's normally common in our district, because of all of our illegal training. But let's face it: Panem is making stupid things illegal, and people are just trying to show them that. You never know when you'll need survival skills.

The way I see it, if you put twenty-four teens with major skills into a battle for the death, well, the ratings would be through the roof. But you're taking people, like kids from District 6 who have no survival skills or skills with weapons, and pitting them against kids like those with the most training, like us, District 2, and District 4. The Games are for entertainment, and the twisted citizens like blood. If you want a bloody battle, give all of the tributes a fighting chance. Fights will be longer, more entertaining, and bloodier.

I don't get why they don't see that.

I look down at my watch right now and see that it's nearly time for the reapings. I sigh irritably and tug off my pajamas. I grab the first thing I see in my room to wear: ripped dark blue jeans and a blue-and-white plaid button-down shirt. I pull on a pair of beat-up sneakers and make my way down to the Reaping area outside of the Justice Building. I check in, and then I make my way to the eighteen-year-old section for the girls. As soon as my presence is sensed by the others, I can hear them whispering about how I am scum to them, nothing to them, a violent girl who should be in juvie instead of out here. I ignore them. They all want me to die.

I'll volunteer.

They'll be shocked.

I'll win.

They'll be even more shocked.

I want to impress my mom, show her I'm more than just the girl she left all on her own at the young age of eleven years old. I want to prove to my father, wherever he is, that I'm doing just fine. Maybe he'll finally come home, if he isn't dead. I still wonder where he is, after all of those years of being alone. I can be someone in life.

"Greetings, District 1, and Happy Hunger Games! May the odds be _ever_ in your favor!" a voice booms. Everyone looks up to see our Capitol escort, Aelianus, walk onto the stage. He speaks about how the Games are great and it will be such an honor for whoever gets reaped to be in them. That's how it is in Districts 1, 2, and 4 as far as I know. In the other districts, though, I'm almost positive that they're the sane ones, regarding it as a death sentence. Aelianus goes on about the tributes, and then announces that he will be picking the female tribute.

"Kassandra Lunz!" he calls. Kassandra. I know her. She's only twelve, she hates these Games. She's a sane little girl. She knows what she's talking about. It would be a shame for her to go into these Games. Even coming from our district, trained, she knows she doesn't want to do this.

"I volunteer as tribute!" I yell loudly, across the whole square. Aelianus smiles at me as I rush onto the stage, and Kassandra smiles at me. It's the first time in a long time that someone's given me a smile. Not since I was eleven, I believe.

"Darling, what's your name? Aelianus asks me.

"Faith. Just Faith," I reply. I don't want my name out there. I know that somewhere else in Panem, the other Amanda will see me. See what she has done to me. Aelianus smiles and says how I should be happy I volunteered, and I smile like this is all part of a good plan I've come up with, like I'm a normal Career. Guess what, Careers? You'll all be dead in your sleep if you're all the kind of whack-jobs they want you to be. Aelianus moves on to announce the boy tribute.

"Holden Sarutobi!"

I look into the crowd. There is shuffling among a group of seventeens before a black-haired boy steps forward reluctantly. I can see in his eyes that like Kassandra and me, he's suffering too. This is not a normal year for District 1.

"I volunteer!"

A boy looking similar to Holden pushes him back and runs onto the stage before anyone could say anything.

"What's your name, young man?" Aelianus asks.

"Heathcliffe Sarutobi."

Brothers.

Not just brothers. They look the same, but not exactly.

Fraternal twins.

"I give you, the tributes of District One!" Aelianus shouts. Heathcliffe and I shake hands. Like his brother, he's sane. Like I said, this is not a typical year for District 1.

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_Heathcliffe Sarutobi_

Today is not a good day.

Not good at all.

It's Reaping day, and the loony-heads in District 1 are excited. Except for a select few of us, of course. Like me. And Holden, my fraternal twin brother. And Aki Chung-Feng, my girlfriend. We hate the Hunger Games. They're sick, twisted, and vile. But people like my parents, so wealthy that they decided to go live off in the Capitol, and my older brother, Soren. Soren's never been in the Games. He didn't get the chance to volunteer last year. But he's been pressing Holden, Aki, and me to volunteer first chance we get. Numerous times Aki, normally calm and collected, felt like punching a hole through his head.

He should have gone to live with our parents.

"Heathcliffe," a voice calls. I lazily open one eye to see Holden standing there, arms crossed.

"Get up, Heath," he says.

"I don't want to!" I reply, throwing the covers over my head. I hear Holden _tsk,_ and then there is movement of some sort, because I hear noise like Holden quickly constructing something. And then I feel a tug on my arm, and I roll down, off of the top bunk of my bed. I expect to hit the wood floor, but instead I find my back connecting with a mattress, covered in pillows for double the protection. Holden smirks at me while I attempt to keep a glare at him. But I end up breaking out into a grin anyway.

"Breakfast's on the table. Aki came over," Holden says. He walks over to his room to get changed while I go on downstairs to see Aki sitting down at the breakfast table, eating pancakes. I sneak up behind her and wrap my arms around her. I feel her calm a bit as she tilts her head back to look me in the eyes.

"Hey," she whispers.

"Hey," I respond.

"It's Reaping day you know. Please, Heath. No matter what Soren says, you aren't volunteering this year," Aki says.

"I won't," I say to her, kissing her forehead and sitting down in a seat next to her.

"You need to promise me you aren't going to volunteer this year, Heath," Aki presses.

"I promise," I say, and with that I take a bite of my pancakes. The rest of breakfast is eaten in silence, and Aki and I go upstairs to get ready for the reaping. I settle for a black, long-sleeved, collared shirt, red jeans, two silver studded wristbands, and black converse sneakers. I spike up my hair just the slightest and head back downstairs where Holden waits. He's wearing nearly the same thing, except his outfit is blue and black, and not black and red.

"We need to talk about outfits before we get dressed. This is the third reaping in a row that we're dressed the same," Holden says. I nod just as Aki comes down the stairs. She wears a purple button-down short-sleeved shirt, a black skirt that stops at her knees, and black heels. We all look at each other and nod before heading out the door. I remember then about waking Soren up, but I decide to let him sleep. The three of us walk to the roped-off Reaping area outside of the Justice building and check in. I kiss Aki one more time before she heads off to her section with other sixteen-year-old girls and Holden and I head out to a group of seventeen-year-old boys.

I don't have too many friends, especially because these boys are all excited to go into the Hunger Games. I still don't understand how they enjoy these things. Our district, along with 2 and 4, are known as Career districts, because we all train illegally for the Games and are supposed to be excited about this sort of thing. In the rest of the districts, though, nobody really trains for this, and they all see it as a death sentence when they go into the Games.

I just don't get it.

"Greetings, District 1, and Happy Hunger Games! May the odds be _ever_ in your favor!" That's Aelianus, our district's Capitol escort. He'll commence the reaping and send two of us to our deaths. I suppose getting reaped or volunteering successfully is having the odds in your favor to most people, but the way I see it, staying out of the Games is more of the odds being in your favor.

Aelianus announces that he's about to pick the female tribute, and I really hope that he doesn't call Aki's name. And he doesn't.

"Kassandra Lunz!"

I look to see movement in a group of twelves. No, that's not fair. They're sending a twelve-year-old girl, who I know is opposed to the Capitol's ways, into the Hunger Games. Kassandra looks shocked and takes shaky steps up to the stage. But before Aelianus has the chance to begin reaping boys, thus closing the window for volunteers, a yell ripples across the crowd.

"I volunteer as tribute!" An unkempt, messy girl races onto the stage. Aelianus gives her an approving smile, and I see Kassandra smile as well. The messy girl is someone I'm unfamiliar with. I've only heard stories of her, and there are conflicting ones about how she got the scar running down her face.

"Darling, what's your name?" Aelianus asks.

"Faith. Just Faith," the girl says. Whatever happened to having a last name? Aelianus raises an eyebrow but says nothing. Instead, he makes a short speak about being honored to have such an eager volunteer, and I notice she's giving him a smile and nodding. More than that, I can tell it's all fake from where I stand. I shake my head as Aelianus makes his way over to the boys' reaping bowl. He draws the slip and holds it in the air before reading the name on it.

"Holden Sarutobi!"

Somebody may as well have just shot me. Holden's going into the Games? No! Holden can't go into the Games. I won't allow it. But my promise to Aki earlier resurfaces. Then again, though, some promises are meant to be broken, and this is one of them.

"I volunteer!" I cry, lunging forward and shoving Holden back. I make a mad dash toward the stage until I am up there, next to Aelianus.

"What's your name, young man?" Aelianus asks.

"Heathcliffe Sarutobi," I reply. I look over at Faith, and the shock is beginning to register on her face as she makes the connection between Holden and I. I tear my eyes away from her and look out into the crowd, locking gazes with Aki. She looks zoned, too deep in shock. She's ready to cry, I just know it.

"I give you, the tributes of District One!" Aelianus shouts. Faith and I shake hands, and I know that this is not going to be a very typical year for District 1, minus the volunteers. I don't want to be here, and she isn't looking to happy about it either. This year is going to be very interesting.

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**And there you have it, the District 1 reaping!**


	2. District 2 Reaping

**Thanks for all of your great reviews, and here's the next chapter you've been pressing me for!**

**Before you read that, though, I forgot to put this at the top of the last chapter!**

**About submitting characters to any stories of mine: You are giving me a creative license to use this character in the ways I want to. In Hunger Games fanfics especially, characters may stray a bit from the description given. The Games change people. Also, characters with little to no background information will be given a backstory made up by me, the authoress, of just how they got to that point in life. If you do not like the way I am writing your character, get over it, please. Don't say anything. I'm trying to stick to the characters as much as possible, but that's kind of hard when you have twenty-four different personalities to write about.**

**My writing style for SYOTs: The Reapings will be one chapter per reaping, and it is the only time a tribute's POV will be used. After the Reapings, it will change to first person, present-tense writing. Writing the POV of all the characters gets too tiring. Honestly, I don't want to switch to twenty-four different POVs with, like, a paragraph for each POV before the switch.**

**Order of death for SYOTs: The order of death does not reflect how much I like the characters. The submitted bloodbath tributes and/or the characters I don't like all die in the bloodbath. After that, I choose what makes a good story and it's all free-for-all.**

**Other important stuff: I can keep loners interesting for a short while, but then I may start to repeat stuff and start irritating you. So if your tribute is a loner, there's a good chance that if they don't go in the bloodbath, they're not going to be a victor.**

**This rant was not my idea/basis. I have found this information on the profile of Hoprocker and rewrote it into my own words. Credit goes to him.**

**Okay, so now you can all read!**

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Musical Endeavors: The 23rd Hunger Games  
by SassySunshine  
District 2 Reaping

_Carina Giannini_

I'm flipping out and dancing around the room.

It's Reaping day!

Yeah, here in District 2, that's something to celebrate. I'm planning on volunteering this year, and then I'm winning. Except there's one flaw in the plan: if I do win, I'm going to be punished for sure. You're not supposed to volunteer until you're really eighteen. I'm seventeen. But no matter, other victors have done it. I'm just following in their footsteps. I grin widely at the thought and pull open my closet doors to look at the clothes I have. I need a good, cute outfit for the Reaping.

I find my outfit among the clutter of bright hues in the center. It's nothing like in the Capitol, but it's a close District 2 representation. It's a pink button-down shirt with ruffles all down the front, a bright blue skirt, a yellow belt, pink shoes, a blue headband, and yellow bangle bracelets. The skirt is short, stopping very well about my knees. The shirt is what most boys in my district would find _very _sexy. I hope they all like what I'm wearing. The next time most of the boys in my district will be seeing me is on the interview after I win the Games.

Then they'll come crawling to me, begging me to date them.

But of course, I already have a boyfriend. I mean, with my long blonde hair and kaleidoscope-like eyes, how can you resist me? Sean certainly couldn't resist. He's my boyfriend, you know, the one I just mentioned? Yeah, well, he's gorgeous. So. Freaking. Gorgeous. I'll be seeing him later today, when I finally do get to the Reaping, right before I volunteer. I wonder if he'd volunteer too, and maybe we can both go into the Games together. We'd romance it up there, and before the first Quarter Quell even occurs, we'll have defied the Hunger Games and ride off into the sunset while President Snow goes berserk. Ah yes, what a perfect plan.

…Nah! The Games are entertaining to watch.

I still need to work out a tactic for how _I'm _going to win after I volunteer.

Oh!

Maybe I could fake an illness to gain sponsors, and then when I have all my medicine and food and what-not, I'll be stronger than the rest of the tributes and knock them all out right off the bat!

…But there's a flaw with that. In the bloodbath I'd have to pretend to be weak, and that will most certainly earn me some sort of weapon to the head.

I guess I should decide later.

I sigh and walk downstairs where my younger sister, thirteen-year-old Calissa, my older brother, eighteen-year-old Kalton, and my two parents wait for me impatiently. I huff at their irritated looks and we say nothing as we walk out the door down to the Reaping, held outside of the Justice Building. Our Justice Building puts most of the ones in the other districts to shame.

My family checks in and my eyes scan the crowd for Sean. I see him just finishing check-in, and I run up to him. His arms embrace me and he swings me around before finally setting me down.

"Carina, are you excited about the Games this year?" Sean asks. I nod.

"I'm volunteering," I say energetically with a grin, hoping to widen the one on his face. Instead his expression falters and turns into one of fear and uncertainty.

"Carina, we're supposed to wait until we're eighteen and can volunteer together," Sean says.

"Then we'll just volunteer this year, instead. It's only a one-year difference, Sean!" I explain to him enthusiastically.

"Carina, think about how much learning we can get in a year. Carina, if you volunteer this year, I'm not volunteering with you. I don't care if the guy with you is a weakling or anything, I'm not going to volunteer," Sean explains.

"Sean!" I say.

"Carina, no. I'm not going to miss out on any more learning we could get in that could help us to survive, okay? If you go in, I'm not. But I'll be cheering for you, and I'll send money to sponsors. But you know those Games. Only one comes out. I'm sorry, Carina. It's your choice to volunteer," Sean explains, walking toward his area with the other seventeen-year-old boys. I try to muster up a glare, but I can't.

He'll volunteer, I know he will.

I stalk off to my group of seventeen-year-olds as our Capitol escort, Decima, takes the stage.

"Welcome, welcome! Happy Hunger Games, everyone, and may the odds be ever in your favor!" Decima says loudly with a big grin on her face. She makes a whole big speech that I already know from watching the Reapings and going to them for the past years of my life. She then proceeds to call the name of the female tribute.

"Tyrania Lysen!"

I hate that girl.

We're great in the training center here at home, and since we're so neck-and-neck at the top of everything, I hate her. Not only that, she's eighteen, and she would've volunteered. She's brutal, too. So there's a guarantee she would be the winner and get all of the fame and glory that could be mine. So I do what comes naturally.

"I volunteer!" I shout at the top of my lungs, earning me a humungous glare from Tyrania. But I proudly take the stage anyway. Decima smiles widely at me.

"What's your name, young lady?" she asks.

"My name is Carina Giannini," I state proudly. Decima says something along the lines of she's happy to have such an eager volunteer, to which I blush at for emphasis and to start gaining sponsors. Then Decima moves right on along to announce the male tribute, and I almost miss the name while I'm already counting the numbers of sponsors I have.

"Jacob Tae!"

I know him. He doesn't enjoy the Games and he hates training, but he was forced to up until he got married when he was sixteen. He's eighteen now. I watch him take the stage, eyes full of fear, and I know he won't survive the bloodbath, despite being from a Career district like ours. I scan the crowd, expectantly waiting for Sean to come forward and shout at the top of his lungs that he'd like to volunteer. But that moment never happens. In fact, for the males, nobody volunteers. That's odd. We almost always have a volunteer. I guess this is where the almost comes in, because the next thing I know, Decima is announcing us as the tributes of District 2. We shake hands and then are taken into custody.

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_Jacob Tae_

No, no, no, no!

Reaping Day. It's finally here. Amanda is going to freak out again like she did last year. She's frazzled enough with the twins, who are only two years old, and we're both still eligible. Luckily, this is our last year for the Reaping, and then we're safe from going into the Games for the rest of our lives while two other unfortunate tributes go in. Hopefully, should one of us get Reaped, there's just about always a volunteer to save the Reaped kid from getting doomed to death.

Death.

The word stings me like when you put hand sanitizer on an open wound. I used to live in District 1, until I was thirteen years old. I had a lot friends, and one of them was my best friend, so to speak. Her name was Amanda Faith. I hung out with her because I had a crush on her and I wanted to protect her, ever since her father ran away when she was eleven and her mother turned to drinking for comfort. But even then, at thirteen years old, Amanda was at her wit's end. She was always swearing, she was always dirty from never showering or anything. But I stuck with her. In our last conversation before I moved to here, District 2, we had said some things that really hurt each other, and then I never saw her again.

A few months later I met this girl on the outskirts of town, and her name was Amanda Jenkins. I thought of my Amanda when she told me her name, and I took it as some sign to befriend her. For a year she was shy and timid, like those little girls you would see clinging onto their mothers' skirts in the stores every time a stranger said hi. She lived in the woods during that year, and I brought her food and dry clothes that belonged to my sister before she moved out. When we were both fifteen we really began to know each other, and we fell in love. When we were both sixteen, she announced something I'd never thought I'd hear until I was at least twenty-four.

Amanda got pregnant.

The shock was only there for a moment, and the next day I proposed, and we promptly got married. Now we have twin girls who are two, like I mentioned before. Rosie and Jordie.

I thought I had the good life after that, minus facing the Reapings for the coming two years, but one night I found Amanda in bed sobbing over something. I had asked her what was wrong, and she told me something more shocking than her pregnancy.

She killed Amanda Faith.

Oh, goodness, I was devastated. We fought about that for a while, but I had to come to terms with it. After all, I loved Amanda Jenkins very much, she was my wife, and she had killed someone who never really liked me back anyway. I considered her my best friend though, but I got over it.

Now it's Reaping Day. We're both eighteen. We have twin daughters. Even if we get Reaped, I'm positive someone will volunteer for us. If we don't get Reaped, I think we'd have to be crazy to shout "I volunteer!" and run up on that stage. So no. I think we're safe for these Games. I think we're safe for the rest of our lives.

I decide to get dressed for the Reaping now and get it over with, so I can get home to take care of my family. I select a dark pair of jeans and a nice t-shirt, nothing defiant of the Capitol like I wish I could wear. I know doing that would earn me death, and I have a family. So no rebelling for me.

I head downstairs to see Amanda on the couch, broken down and crying. I know what this is about. It's about the Reaping. I feel awful about it too. I sit down next to my wife and hold her close. I feel her change into a more comfortable position and continue to cry into my lap. I stroke her back for a long time, telling her everything will be alright. It's fifteen minutes later when she finally does stop crying. She sniffs and her glassy eyes peer at me.

"I-I better go g-get ready then," she says, running up the stairs without another word.

This is what the Reaping does. It destroys lives, turns people into shells of themselves. It either hardens them or breaks them down. Especially when you or someone you know and/or love gets chosen.

Then it's just real hard on you.

Amanda comes back downstairs a few minutes later wearing a simple purple silk dress with a thin, black belt that has a silver buckle in the center. She has on black flats and her hair is down, like usual. She seems distant as she stalks off to the kitchen to prepare a quick meal for breakfast. I watch worriedly as she leaves. Normally I'm laid-back, but today is just awful. The Capitol just had to send _children and teens_ to kill each other. Twelve-year-olds are sent into the death match.

_TWELVE YEAR OLDS._

I can see why most districts despise the Capitol much. But this district, along with 1 and 4, seem to not be able to get enough of it. It truly does sicken me to no end. Somebody needs to do something about that. I don't know. Maybe a tribute can spark a peaceful rebellion where everyone refuses to kill each other, and instead everyone goes off and makes friends with each other.

I know that won't happen, but there's hope, right?

…Maybe?

…Possibly?

No. I know for a fact some people I called "friends" are waiting to lunge forward and volunteer. They're all plotting how to slit the necks of the 12 tributes, or send an ax into the hearts of the tributes from 6, or maybe even slash the heads off of the 3 tributes. It disgusts me.

"Jacob, can you wake the girls up? My mom will watch them while we're inside the roped-off area at the Reaping," Amanda calls from the kitchen.

"Sure!" I call back, and I bound up the stairs to the girls' room. I crack open the door; the two of them are sleeping soundly in cribs right next to each other. I tell the two identical toddlers apart by the signature colors we gave them: pink and purple. Rosie wears the pink, and Jordie wears the purple. I wake Rosie first, since she's easy to wake up. In no time at all I have her in my arms, all smiles. She doesn't know about the terrors of today. I wish she will never have to, but if the Capitol keeps up it's sadistic ways and nobody is brave enough to rebel, I know she'll have to face the tough world we live in.

It saddens me it has to happen this way.

I set Rosie down and move to wake up Jordie. She's a real heavy sleeper. I shake her gently, cooing at her and coaxing her into getting up. But she doesn't budge. This is typical. I sigh and pry my daughter from the confines of her crib. I dress the two girls, and in that time Jordie wakes up. I carry the two squirmy girls downstairs where Amanda's mother sits on the couch with a stroller, an ancient device for carrying around babies and young children.

"Hi Jennifer," I say formally, handing her Rosie and Jordie.

"Oh, well hello there, Jacob. I trust you've been treating Amanda well?" Jennifer says. I nod with a small grin as Amanda comes back from the kitchen.

"Well, should we go now?" she asks nervously. I nod and slip my hand in hers as we all walk out the door and down to the Justice Building. Amanda and I go through check-in, and then I kiss her one more time before we both break off to our separate groups in the crowd of eighteens. I wearily look at my "friends" who are all considering volunteering this year. I don't know why they volunteer, since in the past seven years we haven't had a victor. They've always been outwitted by tributes from outlying districts or by other Careers after their alliance broke. All they would be doing is volunteering for death.

"I think Jacob should volunteer," I hear one of them say. I scowl.

I'm _not_ sending myself into a death-pit. I have a wife and kids, 'kay buddy?

"Welcome, welcome! Happy Hunger Games, everyone, and may the odds be ever in your favor!" a loud voice booms from the front of the stage. My eyes wander to our eccentric Capitol escort, Decima. She goes on to explain the Games through a whole speech everyone should have memorized before you're even eligible for being Reaped. She then proceeds to tell us in excessive detail that she's going to pick the female tribute now.

"Tyrania Lysen!"

I don't know her, but she's pretty eager-looking as she steps up on the stage, when a yell comes from somewhere in a group of female seventeens.

"I volunteer!"

A girl who looks like she's trying to pass off as a Capitolite jumps forward from her group. I hate her eagerness at being a tribute this year.

"What's your name, young lady?" Decima asks with interest.

"My name is Carina Giannini," the girl states proudly, flashing a grin to everyone in the crowd. Decima grins at her eager little tribute and proceeds to draw the boy's name. All the while, I am counting my blessings knowing I will most certainly not be going into the Games, when I hear the name of the tribute.

"Jacob Tae!"

_WHAT?!_

I'm Jacob Tae! I hesitantly take the stage, hoping one of my friends or someone will volunteer for me. But no. That never happens. For the first time in years, District 2 doesn't have a volunteer tribute. Decima is oblivious to my nervousness and proudly declares us as the tributes for District 2, and Carina and I shake hands.

Then we are taken into custody.

* * *

**See you all in the next chapter!**


	3. District 3 Reaping

**Sorry it took so long, guys, but it's here!**

**Also, in my author's note before the previous chapter, I referred to Hoprocker as _he _in crediting him for the rant. I found out today that Hoprocker is female. Sorry 'bout that.**

**Anyways, the District 4 Reaping is half done and should be up soon. Now, you may carry on and read the District 3 Reaping.**

* * *

Musical Endeavors: The 23rd Hunger Games  
by SassySunshine  
District 3 Reaping

_Cecilia Sheryl_

We're all doomed.

DOOMED.

It's Reaping Day, and this year is the first year for my friends and me that we're eligible to be Reaped for the 23rd Annual Hunger Games. We're only twelve, and we are getting sent into a death match for food. It's ridiculous.

Luckily, I've got a high IQ and I've seen all of the strategies other tributes have had for the Games. I've spotted all of their fatal flaws in their plans, like two years ago when the District 2 tribute decided to go looking for the one from District 4, and decided to set up a trap in the trees. The District 2 tribute forgot that he needed to climb trees to survive and trapped himself, and District 4 tribute killed him. Oy, if you're going to come from a district where you receive training, at least bother to show it.

Really.

Anyway, I'm considering calling up Cathy and Kara, my two best friends, and discussing the Games. But who knows – any of the phones in Panem could be tapped and President Snow himself could be listening in. So I decide against it. Instead, I tip-toe downstairs to see if anyone else is up, nervous, at seven in the morning. I see no one and quickly jump into the chair at the desk and turn on the computer.

As far as I know, there's only about four districts with computers, and that's us, District 1, District 2, and District 4. I guess the other districts aren't really technologically advanced, and 1, 2, ad 4 just have so much money from having more victors than any of us. So I guess that's why.

Once the computer boots up, I see that it isn't working. There's a message across the screen: _Reaping Day! All computers will be back in service tomorrow morning. Have a nice day and may the odds be ever in your favor._

Of course.

OF COURSE.

Naturally, since I've been raised to be a straight-A student in District 3, the main technology district, I can hack pretty easily. I get through the firewall on the computer's block and get through to the internet. It seems to be a lonely place when everyone else doesn't really know how to do what I can. I see that I have nothing to do on the internet, and I'm feeling too lazy to hack through all of the websites to get to them.

Man, the Capitol blocks _everything_ on Reaping day.

I shut down the computer and slouch back in my chair with a sigh. I don't really want to go to the Reaping today. I don't really want to live here either. I don't particularly like the Capitol. President Snow is only about a year old for our president, and he's young, very young. But boy, he makes me want to punch him. Hard. In the jaw.

And I'm not normally like this in case you're wondering.

But gosh, the president of Panem drives me crazy.

I push away from the desk in my swivel chair and get up. I decide to go get dressed for the reaping. It's a few hours away, but honestly, I have nothing better to do. I suppose afterward I'll wander about the district, maybe go talk to Cathy or Kara. Or maybe even Will.

Oh, how I hope Will doesn't get Reaped.

Will is the boy in my year at school that I have a crush on. I just really, really like him. But I don't think he likes me. I'm pretty sure at least three other girls are also crushing on him. He never really has noticed me much. I'm a smart girl, and typically, if you're smart, Will doesn't take notice to you. Rather, he takes notice to the girls who don't have very high grades and play sports. I don't understand it, but it seems to make sense to everyone else.

I walk upstairs to my room and shut the door, and then I tug open my dresser drawers. I pick out a simple Reaping day outfit. It's a three-quarter sleeve button-down white shirt, black pants, black sneakers, a black watch, and a black tie. Usually girls wear skirts to the Reapings, but I like these clothes better. I head on back downstairs and I scribble out a note to my parents that I'm going out into the district. If my parents don't see it first, Tommy will. Tommy is my nine-year-old brother.

I pull open the front door and step outside into the crisp morning air of District 3. It's somewhat warm out today, a good day for our district, usually, if it weren't Reaping. But it is. I walk down the street in the direction of Kara's house. There is nobody out on the streets today, minus the usual vendors and restaurant owners and what-not, as well as Peacekeepers. I briefly consider my journey to Kara's house, wondering if I really should be going. I decide not to and turn back when I hear someone call my name. I turn my head slightly, tuned into even the smallest of sounds. I feel someone run into me at full force and engulf me in a hug.

Cathy.

"Oh my gosh, I've been looking everywhere for you!" Cathy exclaims. It seems she's already in her Reaping clothes as well, a black button-down shirt, red-and-white plaid skirt, a matching tie, and black flats. I swear, that's all her wardrobe consists of: plaid ties with matching skirts, and solid shirts with matching flats.

"Have you seen Kara? I was talking to her a little while ago, but she had to go back to her house. She said she'd only needed to feed the dog, but she never came back out. It's been, like, ten minutes!" Cathy exclaims. I put a hand on her shoulder and look her dead in the eye.

"Cath, think about it. Where were you when she had to run home?" I say slowly.

"We were at the corner store," Cathy responds.

"Okay. So it takes five minutes to get back to Kara's house from there, five minutes to feed her dog, and five minutes to walk back to the corner store. So go back to the corner store, and she'll probably be there. I'll go with you," I say. Cathy had been nodding as I spoke to her, a look of realization still on her face as she nods again. With that, we both run off to the corner store where Kara is waiting with her arms crossed in some sort of half-real, half-fake annoyance with our tardiness.

"Miss Sheryl and Miss Dawl, you're both _very_ late! We must keep schedule!" Kara says in a ridiculous Capitol accent when we get to her. Cathy and I both start laughing – the accent makes almost anything sound funny. When we're finished laughing, Kara stares us down, or more specifically, stares Cathy down.

"Cath, where'd ya go? I told you I'd be back in fifteen minutes!" Kara says.

"I may have not heard that part and then ran off to find Cecilia when you didn't come back for ten minutes," Cathy replies sheepishly, cheeks flushing in embarrassment. Kara rolls her eyes with a grin.

"Whatever. I want to tell you guys, good luck – err, may the odds be _ever_ in your favor – at the Reaping! I'll see you guys soon," Kara says, walking back in the direction of her house. Cathy and I wave good-bye to her and then walk in the opposite direction, toward our own houses. Cathy breaks away from me a few yards away from my house and treks through her front lawn and disappears into her house. I continue down the street until I reach my own house where my parents are now up and getting Tommy dressed for the Reaping. He's dressed in a blue button-down shirt with white pinstripes, dark blue jeans, and black dress shoes.

"Cecilia, you're back. Tommy found your note and told us about it when we got up," my mother says to me when I step through the door. I nod toward her.

"You're ready, I trust?" she asks. I nod again.

So within a few minutes, my family is out the door and headed down to the Reaping area outside of the Justice Building. There are decorations set up and a gigantic TV screen rests to the right side of the stage. This is where people come to watch the Hunger Games if they don't watch at home. On stage I see our mayor and our sole victor, but no Capitol escort. Of course he's not there. Capitol escorts these days make grand entrances. I shake my head as I walk to the sign-in and get my finger pricked. I wave good-bye to my family and then head off to the front of the Reaping area. I find Cathy standing off to the side of the group. Kara isn't here yet.

"Cathy!" I call over to her. Cathy looks up with a bright smile, but I see behind her eyes that she's terrified.

"Hey, Cecilia," she says. We hug each other briefly and then we both turn our eyes toward the stage.

"Do you think we'll get Reaped?" Cathy asks nervously. I shake my head.

"Not possible. You, Kara, and I all have only one slip in there out of thousands. By my calculations, that's virtually impossible, only possible by a fluke. I've never seen it happen before. Besides, we're not even taking tesserae," I explain to her.

"Speaking of Kara," Cathy says, looking around. She's about to go run off and find her when we hear a booming voice from the stage.

"Hello, District Three! Happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be _ever_ in your favor!"

It can only be Albus, our aberrant Capitol escort. To us here in the districts, he looks like he came from a freak show. To him, we're the dirt beneath his feet. In short, we both think the same thing about each other: different, and not in the good way. Albus's snow-white hair is coated in a thin layer of glitter as far as I can tell, and sparkles with every movement. I know now that there is a such thing as too much glitter. I shake my head as Albus makes a speech about selecting this year's tributes, the fourth year in a row he's been our district's escort. He then proceeds to get all worked up about having the honor of sending the female to her death first.

His hand dips into the glass bowl on the table, plucking a slip and bringing it to eye-level. He does this slowly with such drama, and it irks me to no end.

"Kara Frae!" Albus reads. Cathy and I are stunned. Our eyes flit to the other side of the twelve-year-old group where Kara stands, scared stiff and eyes wide. Kara cannot possibly go into the Games. She just can't. She isn't the fighting type! She'll be dead before day one is over!

"I volunteer!" I shout, stunning Cathy further. It's all too much for her to bear, because I see tears trickling out of the corners of her eyes. Kara puts her hands over her mouth, ready to cry as well. I ignore them. I have to do this. My friends aren't going into the Hunger Games. Albus looks delighted to have a volunteer, considering District 3 doesn't particularly like the idea of volunteering. Especially when you volunteer just because you feel you'll win, like those in District 1, District 2, and District 4.

"What's your name?" Albus asks me.

"Cecilia Sheryl," I respond, looking for my family. I see Tommy, hugging my mom and absolutely bawling. My dad is holding the both of them, and for a brief second I feel regret for volunteering. Then again, I've saved Kara. She's the only child her parents have. I sigh and look for Will out in the crowd while Albus makes talk about selecting the male tribute. I spot Will, looking at me in shock. I break the gaze when I see Albus plunging his hand into the bowl for the boys.

"Caleb Swami!" Albus announces to the crowd. There is movement in a group of the fifteens. Then a tan boy with brown hair and brown eyes comes forward. He trips on his own feet on the way up the steps, and the crowd starts to laugh at him and so does Albus. His cheeks burn red when he looks up. But other than the embarrassment, he doesn't look very scared to be going into the Games. Most kids his age are somewhere in the middle and are almost always afraid of being sent into the Games. But his expression remains neutral.

"I give you, the tributes of District Three!"Albus announces to everyone. Caleb and I shake hands and we are taken into custody.

* * *

_Caleb Swami_

The streets of District 3 are cold, harsh, and unforgiving. The moon's brightness slowly gets overpowered by the strength of the sun in the dim, early-morning light. I watch it as I make my trek through the darkest corners, looking for the house that used to belong to my family, before they all died in a car accident. The car had hit ours when they, my little sister, and I were all in the car. My parents and sister died; I was in the hospital for a few months. Gingerly, I touch the scar on the right side of my head, on my cheek. A chunk of glass had gone into my cheek in the accident, and after they removed it, I had needed stitches. When I got the stitches removed, the scar had remained.

So now I live all alone on the streets, without a family and unable to pay for the house we used to own. I am haunted with the scar, a constant reminder of the accident that cost my family's lives and should've cost me mine, too.

I see the house down the street. They haven't sold it, since moving districts isn't common and most people keep the one house they've got. I should be in the community home, but nobody's really seen me since the accident. I stopped going to school and went into hiding, and that's when I became shy, clumsy, and have zero confidence.

When I get to the front yard, I dash into the hedges out front and tumble out, sprawled across the lawn on the other side. I look around for Peacekeepers to come and take me away, and in seeing none, twist the doorknob on the side door of the house and sneak in. I creep up to my old bedroom and see my clothes, neatly tucked away from when we still lived here. Everything is coated in a fine layer of dust, since I haven't really been in here anymore.

I miss being here. I miss my little sister and the way she would climb into bed with me whenever she got lonely, or when I woke up to the smell of my mom's pancakes, or when I had to race down the stairs to say good-bye to my dad before he left for work. This is why I don't try to stay here; it's filled with too many sad memories. Besides, the neighbors would catch me for sure and have me turned in to the community home. I don't like that place. Before the accident I heard stories from some kids in my year at school that lived there. They said the community home here is like a sweatshop. I don't want to live there.

I find a green t-shirt and khakis in my dresser drawer, slightly creased when I put them on from sitting folded up for such a long time. They smell like my mom, since she folded my clothes. The thought brings tears to my eyes, but I blink them back and head for my closet door. I tug it open in search of a belt and shoes. I find a brown weave belt and my old black sneakers. I must look ridiculous, but usually my mom would be here to help me pick out clothes since I'm considered, by her standards, _fashionably challenged._ According to me, that's fancy talk for "You stink at picking out outfits; I'm buying your clothes and putting together outfits for you from now on."

I miss my family.

I decide I should be heading out to the Reaping. Last year I missed the last one, due to my being in the hospital. My name was still in that bowl, but they never called me.

I wonder if they will this year.

If they do, I consider what my friends will think when they see me. For all they know, I'm dead, or I've fled the district. It would come as a huge shock to them when they see me, absolutely fine, minus the fact that I have no real place to live. They'd wonder where I've been, why I haven't come back to school, why I haven't been sent to the community home yet.

I recall the day I narrowly escaped going to the community home…

_ The hospital smells awful. It smells like death. It stinks of the death of my parents and sister. Ugh. Whoever that driver is, they're sure going to regret ever taking my family. I shake my head at my thoughts and poke my head out of the doorway. I peer around the corner to see my nurse conversing with some of the people who are coming to take me away to the community home. They're going to be in this room to take me away any minute. I frantically look around the room for any way of escape and only see my window. I'm only on the second floor, and there are some bushes below. Maybe they'll break my fall._

_ I hear footsteps and my breath quickens. This is the only way out of the community home, isn't it? I look down again. It's an alley down there, so nobody would see me, unless they have no home and won't go to the community home, either. I'm safe that way. With a sharp intake of breath, I throw open the window. Cold air rushes in and I take one look back. I then face the alley, prepare myself, and jump out the window. Halfway through the fall I consider it being a bad idea. But I suppose I'll get over it._

_ I hit the bush. It hurts, because now I realize it's a stupid rose bush, but it's so worth not going to the community home. I tear out of that bush and start running in the direction of the next alley, where should those people from the community home and the nurses come looking for me out the window, they won't find me. _

_ I find the next alley only a few streets away from the home I can't live in until I know they've stopped searching for me. I suppose I'll just live here for a while, maybe meet some other community home escapers. _

I decide to head on out to the Justice Building to sign in for Reaping. I believe they still have me on the list, because I haven't been found dead yet and they know I leave the side door of my house open when it should be locked.

The more that I think about it, the more I start to believe that they have stopped searching for me. I shake my head; I guess I've already managed to evade them enough. Maybe after this Reaping I should finally go to them. After all, the streets are unsafe. I don't know how I'd managed most of the time I'd been fourteen and fifteen living out there, but it happened. And now I guess it's done.

I see the Reaping area is decorated more this year than it was last year. That can only mean some sort of twist is going to throw a wrench into any tactics anyone has for the Games. Am I the only one interpreting this, or is there someone else out there? I really hope there's someone else that gets it, or else that'd be sad.

"Watch it!"

I hear the voice after I'm sprawled on the ground.

What the heck?

I look around for the source of the voice and notice the bully from the school I dropped out of. He doesn't seem to recognize me, though. He pushes past, and it looks for a few minutes like I'd tripped all on my own. Truth be told, that would be quite common. Even before I dropped out I was clumsy. After I dropped out, the shyness set in, because I was now uncomfortable around people, waiting for one of them to recognize me and turn me in to the community home. And then after that, I lacked confidence.

Man, my life sucks.

I get up off of the ground after dodging peoples' feet. They all give me irritated looks, like I've disrupted order and peace, but hasn't Reaping done that enough? I shuffle past them with a nervous look on my face and up to the check-in table. I get my finger pricked, and I see a spark of recognition in the lady's face. Then again, though, I don't think she heard about the accident. So she probably doesn't even know about my current living conditions. I sigh and head on through to the group of fifteens I'm supposed to stand with. I spot familiar faces from school and I'm slightly saddened. Some of these boys were my friends, or so they said. They went on and on about how dumb I was, despite being a District 3 kid, behind my back. Some of them even went as far as never inviting me over, but telling me we would be best friends until the end.

Well, I wonder how they would react if I ever mentioned the accident.

"Hello, District Three! Happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be _ever_ in your favor!" I hear from the stage. I turn and see our creepy Capitol escort Albus on stage. His obviously fake snow-white hair is coated in sparkles, a look he brought back from three years ago. He smiles at the crowd of us, the thousands of us waiting to be sent to die. Albus makes a speech about the Hunger Games and being our escort and such, and how he has the honor of sending us to our deaths. Though he doesn't put it that way, we all know he means it. He goes on to tell us that he's picking the girl tribute now, something I hate to see. The way I view it, most girls are far more emotional than boys. I can tell there are going to be emotions this year, like any other.

He dips his hand into the Reaping ball with the girls' slips and yanks a name from the thousands. He brings it to eye-level and practically shouts the name across the crowd.

"Kara Frae!"

I see movement from the clump of twelve-year-olds. The girl they're looking at seems frozen in shock, too scared to even go forward. I feel awful for her; nobody appreciates sending a twelve-year-old into the Games, even the most heartless of Capitol citizens. This is absolutely cruel. I see two more girls looking at each other, and then one of the girls decides to do something very unusual for our district, much more for someone her age.

"I volunteer!"

The words that leave her mouth ripple across the audience and I'm shocked. The girl originally reaped and the girl the volunteer was talking to both look ready to cry as the girl, who seems to be their friend, or best friend, bravely takes to the stage. Her parents must be devastated, if she has any. I stare at her as Albus talks to her.

"What's your name?"

"Cecilia Sheryl."

Pretty name, pretty girl, only twelve, going into the Hunger Games. And nobody steps forward to volunteer for the volunteer. I don't think that's fair, for a little girl like her to be forced into something so dumb and cruel. Albus seems to be just about the only one happy to have a volunteer, and then he moves right along to call the boy's name.

"Caleb Swami!"

That name sounds familiar.

Hey, wait…

I'm Caleb Swami.

There is whispering through the crowd and almost instantaneously I know that they all thought I was dead or had fled the district. I half-walk, half-stumble my way to the stage. I'm on the stairs when I trip over my own two feet. Laughter bursts from the safe citizens of District 3 and my cheeks flush in embarrassment. I stumble back up to my feet and get on stage with Cecilia. She looks at me, trying to read my expression. You see, usually when you're thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, and sixteen, you're either very worried about getting Reaped or could care less, but my expression says neither.

"I give you, the tributes of District Three!" Albus announces to the crowd gleefully. Cecilia and I shake hands, and then we are taken into custody.

* * *

**District 4 Reaping up soon!**


	4. District 4 Reaping

**So sorry this took so long to get to you guys. I had writer's block, then got homework, then got a more severe form of writer's block, the got other story ideas, then stopped writing, more homework...you get the point.**

**But then I was driven on by the image of tributes skipping around the Cornucopia singing as they hack other tributes to death. Wow.**

**_That's_ what drove me on.  
**

**Plus I couldn't really keep you guys waiting forever.**

**So, here it is!**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

Musical Endeavors: The 23rd Hunger Games  
by SassySunshine  
District 4 Reapings

_Michelle "Micky" Pratt_

Well, look what day finally decided to show it's ugly face.

Reaping Day.

Goodness, I hate this day. It's the day that the terrors of the Hunger Games come down upon our not-so-great nation under the control of our sick, twisted Capitol, the government headquarters full of colorful freaks happy about sending twenty-three of twenty-four teens age twelve to eighteen to their deaths each and every year. It's the twenty-third year for the insanity, and out of those twenty-three years, our district, out of the twelve of Panem, has produced two victors. Mags, and some other lady I don't particularly care for.

These Games are vile and repulsive. Even if you manage to come out as the only one alive, the life of a victor isn't easy, from what I've heard. In between each Games, there's a tour around Panem, called the Victory Tour. They're pained by going around to each district and to the Capitol. They come face-to-face with the families of tributes they've killed. Some turn to drinking and drugs. Some get executed or their families get executed for rebellious behavior. They have flashbacks and nightmares for the rest of their lives about their times in the arena.

I don't want to be a victor, from the sounds of it, but I think I'd like to keep living if I was ever thrown into the Games.

Or if I ever volunteered.

My parents are typical of those from District 1, District 2, and District 4, our home. We're called Careers, because we've trained for the Hunger Games for all of our lives, illegally. I was brought up trained under the impression that these Games were a good thing. That was, until I turned eleven.

When I became eleven, I watched every bit of the Hunger Games for the first time. I was allowed to see the odd costumes the tributes wear for the Opening Ceremonies, I got to see the training scores the tributes got, and I got to watch the Hunger Games in full. I saw all of the bloodshed at the most gruesome point of the Games – the bloodbath. I saw all of the dead tributes, mangled and bloody on the ground. I saw the pleasure on the faces of the other tributes after they killed them. I saw pictures of widely entertained Capitol audiences. I saw our old president, the one before Snow, laughing with a wide grin on his face at everything that'd happened. The commentator and interviewer before Caesar Flickerman and Claudius Templesmith were laughing about everything.

I was utterly disgusted with how our country behaves.

There was a twelve-year-old in that game, a girl only a year older than me. She had made it to the top four, miraculously, and then was mercilessly slaughtered by another one of the Career tributes. This was the way our country was run in punishment for rebellion. I could see why we rebelled, now. But my parents thought I must've enjoyed it, because every year after I had to watch the grueling tributes get killed and killed until one victor remained.

What I remember about the Games I watched when I was eleven was noticing that when I turned twelve in a few months, I would be eligible for Reaping. I was upset and terrified. But each year, I noticed, one of the eighteen-year-olds would jump forward and volunteer. I was safe for all those years, until this year came around.

This year I'm eighteen and my parents even said to me they'll disown me if I don't volunteer. They want me to be a victor. Mark my words, if I volunteer and somehow make it home alive, they aren't living in the Victor's Village with me. Nope. It's not going to happen. They're trying to press me to do something I don't want to. What kind of parents do that?

The other districts have it right. They absolutely hate Reaping, nobody unnecessarily volunteers, and they don't really train for it all of their lives, because that's what the vicious, most unliked districts do. I stick out here in this district because of that, but I bet you I'd fit right in, in a district like 12 or 11 or any of the others.

"Micky!" I hear a shout from the other side of my bedroom door. I groan and pull the covers back over my head. I hear the door creak open, and I know it's my mom because she always wears heels to the Reaping, and they're incredibly loud. The covers are yanked off of me, exposing me to the warm air of my bedroom. I open one eye lazily to see my mother standing there with her arms crossed in disapproval. I'm supposed to have eaten and gotten dressed by now, I know. But it's my last year, and I don't particularly like what's coming to me. My mother's stare bores a hole into me as I look up at her.

"I don't want to."

Those are the first words out of my mouth this morning. My mom's lips purse into a thin line as she pulls me up out of bed and tugs open my dresser drawers, and she begins looking for proper Reaping clothes for me to wear.

"Mom, do I really have to volunteer this year?"

"Yes, you do. I didn't raise a wimp, or a loser, or a quitter. I raised a victor."

To heck with that! She's actually dead-set on sending me to my death! I glare at her as she pulls a white blouse, black skirt, and black flats from among my other clothes and tosses them onto my bed for me to wear. She leaves the room with an irritated huff, leaving me to my own devices to get dressed. That is just like her. Of course she's mad at me. I sigh and put on my clothes and brush out my hair. I leave it down for now, but I'll put it back up into a short ponytail later.

I push open my bedroom door to see Travis leaning against the wall. Travis is my boyfriend.

"Travis!" I exclaim, throwing myself into his welcoming arms. He wraps them around me and kisses the top of my forehead.

"Hey, Micky," he whispers to me. I look into his eyes to see pain in them.

"This is the year you're volunteering, huh?" he asks in a low tone, eyes darting about for any sign of my parents. I nod.

"I don't want to, Travis. They'll disown me if I don't, and they'll think of me as some sort of disgrace to the family," I say. Travis sighs.

"Don't volunteer, then you can live with us," he says to me. I shake my head.

"I can't. They may be mean but they're my family," I say.

"Micky…," Travis says.

"Travis, I don't want to do this, but I have to. Just remember, I love you. If I don't make it back, go find another girl to love. You're amazing, Travis. Go find another girl to love and possibly even start a family with," I say to him. Travis nods sadly, and then looks at the watch on his wrist.

"We better get going to Reaping now," he says. So we leave in silence, and we head down to the Justice Building in the Square to get signed in. We grasp each other's hands as we go down to the sign-in desk. We get pricked on one of our fingers, drawing the tiniest bit of blood, and the blood is stamped into a book. We then split off. Travis heads over to a group of his friends, in the male eighteens, and I go off by myself among the crowd of female eighteens.

Anxiety hangs thick in the air, but it is probably felt most by the twelve-year-olds. I might not be the friendliest person to most of these people, since I really don't know them, but I feel awful for the little kids who have to endure the Hunger Games. Again, the memory of when I was eleven, and the twelve year old in the top four, floods back into my mind. I want to run over and hug them, tell them everything is alright. But I can't do that now, because our stupid escort, Reagania Kalootz comes on stage, dressed from head-to-toe in aqua blue. Oh goodness, she's one of those sick, twisted idiots, who every year is so excited about watching the Hunger Games, and even more than that, picking a boy and a girl to go to their death every year.

"Hello, District Four! I am Reagania Kalootz! Happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be _ever_ in your favor!" Reagania states happily. She begins making a big long speech about Panem's history, including the Dark Days, the defeat of all twelve of our districts, and the obliteration of District 13. She then gets on to the Treaty of Treason that was made at the end of the war and how the Hunger Games were made, and then re-explains the rules of the Games that we already know.

"Okay, District Four! It is time to select this year's tributes for the Twenty-third Annual Hunger Games! Ladies first, and may the odds be _ever_ in your favor!" Reagania says excitedly, stepping over to the girls' Reaping bowl. It doesn't particularly have that many slips, since we don't have many people taking tesserae in a district like ours.

Reagania drops her hand into the bowl and swirls it around, looking for the perfect name to pluck among many. She finally draws one of the white slips. Though perfect and pristine, it holds someone's seal of death.

"Jessica Leera!" Reagania's voice rings across the Square. I look for the girl and spot her somewhere in the fourteens. She doesn't seem fazed by the Reaping, probably only mad that her training will be cut short by four years.

Perhaps not.

"I volunteer!" I say. My voice ripples across the Square, catching nobody by surprise. Eighteen-year-olds always volunteer, so why should I get any special attention? I'm sure my parents are proud, but I'll bet Travis is devastated. After I'm up on the stage, I look for him in the crowd, and his eyes finally lock on mine. He seems sad about it, really. I see a tear trail down his cheek, but he brushes it away quickly, trying to be strong because he knows I really don't want to do this. I try not to let my annoyance and sadness show through, but instead I mask it with enthusiasm. Maybe I can pull this throughout the Games, and win myself sponsors.

"Oh, we have a volunteer!" Reagania says excitedly to me, snapping me from my thoughts. I nod with a bright grin on my face, catching some people I know, or that know me, by surprise.

"What's your name and age miss?" Reagania presses.

"My name is Michelle Pratt and I am eighteen years old," I state. I try not to throw up in my mouth. I absolutely do not like calling myself by my first name. I prefer Micky; I always have and I always will. Reagania smiles at me, makes a whole big speech about how pleased she is to have yet another lovely volunteer for death, and then moves on to reap the boys. A sliver of me hopes Travis volunteers, but I quickly squash the thought. I don't want to be pitted against him in a death match for food. After all, twenty-four of us go in. Twenty-three lose their lives. One emerges victorious to be left scarred for the rest of their life.

Reagania again drops her hand into the Reaping bowl for the boys, and I hope to all things good that Travis is not picked this year. Reagania pulls the slip from among the thousands and carefully unfolds it. She walks over to the microphone to read the name of the tribute boy.

"Toby Wilkinson!"

I look to the crowd of eighteens when I see scuffling among them. Slowly, a divide in the teens forms a path where a boy with dirty blonde hair, pale skin, and piercing blue eyes emerges. He steps on to the stage, and Reagania looks out into the crowd expectantly. When not a peep is heard, she nervously steps toward the microphone.

"Any volunteers?"

Good grief, even the rest of the eighteens are silent. Nobody is volunteering for him. I feel bad for Toby; I've seen him at school, and he's quite the loner kid. Reagania seems stunned at the unusual silence. She clears her throat and slightly stumbles to the microphone, trying to regain her composure.

"District Four, may I present to you, your tributes for the Twenty-third Annual Hunger Games!" she exclaims. She then instructs us to shake hands, and afterward we are taken into custody.

* * *

_Toby Wilkinson_

I don't really like today.

It's Reaping Day here in Panem, and I absolutely hate it. This year, I'm hoping I won't have to go into the Games. I mean, usually, there's a volunteer for every single year, because we come from one of these Career districts. I'm eighteen and I don't have the slimmest of odds, but I don't take tesserae and I'll reiterate: we almost always have a volunteer. It's practically unheard of, not having a volunteer in District 4.

So I suppose I'm safe, huh?

Well then, maybe I should go get ready for the Reaping, so I can get it over with and get back to the pier to go fishing.

I adore fishing. And reading books.

Fishing and reading books.

I don't suppose that's what most of those in the other districts would assume of someone from District 4. My district is known for producing the prettiest people. Most people in our district are on the beach in the pristine blue waters of our coast, swimming, surfing…and getting girlfriends. Most of the boys here have tannest skin imaginable, and the shiniest blonde hair, and eyes of some piercing color. Me? I'm a pale, lanky boy with dirty blonde hair that has absolutely no sheen to it and cold blue eyes. Personally, I believe I'm not much of a looker.

My amount of zero friends and no girlfriend supports that fact.

"Toby," a voice calls from downstairs, breaking my train of thought. Absently, I stick my head out of the doorpost of my bedroom.

"Yes Mom?" I call back to my mother, Orva.

"Get ready for the Reaping! Paul will be here soon!"

"Alright!"

I wonder if she's even getting ready herself. My mom tends to procrastinate too much, even with the demanding job as a university art professor. She spends too much time doing artwork on her own sometimes, not writing up her lesson plans. Otherwise, she's trying to get me to open up to the world. Ha, yeah, not gonna happen mom. Maybe when she finally feels good about herself and goes around and makes some friends of her own, then I'll get up and do that. It makes me wonder how she even got married to Paul, my dad.

My dad works in District 3 as an engineer and only visits us for the weekends and the Reaping every year. He loves science and electronics and he's quite social, but he's stubborn and really doesn't listen to people and what they say. Often times he does things on his own. It applies, too, when my mom begged him to stay in the district with us, but he moved out anyway. He never relaxed around the house with us and his work and that's what he stated as his reason for moving when he visited us two weeks after, but I think he's just the same in District 3. I honestly believe that he hates my family, or what's left of it, anyway.

Seriously, how did two polar opposites come together?

That's certainly what I'd like to know.

But either way, it doesn't change the fact that my mom has greatly rubbed off on me and left me with no friends and there's no dad around to do manly things with. But that's okay, because that's not really what I like to do.

But I wonder if it would have made me more friends in elementary school and middle school.

_"Hey, Toby! You wanna come over and go surfing later? The waves are gonna be really high today and I got a new board to test-try!" a boy calls to me. Honestly, I don't know his name, as I haven't bothered with learning with it. He looks like the kind of kid that is a sports-a-holic, a thirteen-year-old with tan skin, shiny bleach blonde hair that makes all the girls go goo-goo eyes, and piercing ocean blue eyes._

_ "No thanks," I respond quickly and quietly._

_ "Why not, Toby? You never do anything fun, except read and fish. District Four is more than fishing and – dang it Toby! – reading! The smart ones are supposed to be in District Three, 'kay? District Four has the reputation of prettiest people, have you not heard?" the boy says in exasperation._

_ "No thanks," I repeat, louder this time as I gather my books and shut my locker. The boy persists, though._

_ "Toby, you're boring. Didn't your dad ever teach you how to have fun, surf, or swim even?"_

_ "Yeah, he did," I say, much to his shock, "I just don't want to." _

_ Lies, lies, lies._

_ "Oh…well then. I guess I'll go ask Ferric if he wants to surf with me instead," the boy says, heading off. I shake my head at him as he goes to find his friend._

Maybe it would have.

Whatever, there's no time now to dwell on the subject. I have a reaping to get ready for, and once it's over, I can return home and my life can finally be normal, as I won't have to deal with any more reapings after this. Ah, the thought of being 19 soon is pleasing.

I close my bedroom door again and open my drawers. I find a plaid blue long-sleeved shirt, khaki pants and a simple brown leather weave belt to hold them up, and beat-up gray sneakers. At least I won't draw that much attention to myself with this outfit. After all, most people have learned by now that Toby Wilkinson doesn't like conversation or attention. End of discussion. Period.

I put the clothes on and head downstairs where my mom is sitting at a canvas, painting something new while piles of unfinished paintings sit around her. Her specialty is nature, landscapes specifically. A beach sits with half the ocean colored and dull sand. A meadow lies on the ground staring up at the ceiling, begging in upset for the flowers to be colored in and the sun to shine. A plain leans against the wall in lethargy, with only the grass colored.

Her latest painting is just being painted now. As she paints, I see it's a depressing painting, full of deadly rock spires and black, dead thorns. It's this sort of thing that comes up every reaping day. Last year, it was a mass grave with a white flag sitting mournfully in the dirt, waving for the surrender of the tributes.

Funny thing is, only the depressing paintings ever get finished.

"Mom, stop," I say, taking her by the wrist. She looks up at me and sighs. She relaxes her grip on the paintbrush, allowing me to set it down.

"Go get ready, now. I'll answer the door when Paul gets here," I say.

The usual routine.

My mom nods, takes one last look at her painting, and trudges upstairs to go get ready for my last reaping. I take a seat on the couch as she disappears up the stairs. It's only a matter of minutes before a knock on the door rouses me from my spot. I pull open the door. There stands my father, dressed in a dreary gray business suit, ironed to perfection, a neat white button-down shirt, and a black tie. He looks as if he's going to something of a Capitol and a District 4 mash-up of a wedding.

"Good morning, Toby," my dad says formally, offering a shake of the hand rather than a hug like I had initially wanted.

"Paul," I reply solemnly, making no attempts for father-son affection.

Gosh, the man won't even let me call him "Dad."

"Please, come in," I say, waving my hand around, "and care to take a seat." Paul nods like the formal man he is. I know he'd much rather be back in 3, working on some new science experiment. I heard from one of his co-workers that he's been working with genetics, now, in hopes of becoming a head Gamemaker, because they face unprecedented challenges at every turn of the Games. It disgusts me, honestly. The Hunger Games are basically the slaughter of innocent children who weren't even in the rebellion twenty-three years ago. The oldest eligible tribute is eighteen, as I've said. They'd have been born at about the 5th Annual Hunger Games. So why are the rest of us being punished?

Besides, with a government like this, people were in their right mind with the whole rebellion thing. I wonder if that could ever happen again, some time in a distant future. But that seems too hopeful now. I know this will be a forgotten Hunger Games, because people are excited. Two years from now is the 25th Hunger Games, the 1st Quarter Quell.

We can't possibly have a rebellion before the first Quell. People would go ballistic.

"So, Toby, how is school? Are you getting better grades, like I asked you to?" Paul asks, interrupting me from my precious thinking time.

"No," I reply, shocking him but not shocking myself, "I'd get made fun of and ignored worse than I already am with the highest grades in school. I mean, look at…uh…whatever his name is! He's at the top of my class and everybody makes fun of him. He had to be fished out of the dumpster yesterday by the Peacekeepers," I say matter-of-factly, annoying Paul very much.

"If you don't get good grades you won't be accepted into a great college. I want you in a District Three college, because son, they are by far the best schools in Panem," Paul says.

"No, I don't want to go to college. Besides, maybe I'll get reaped this year. Or maybe even volunteer."

"Toby," Paul says sternly.

"Paul," I reply.

"I'm back!" Mom calls down the stairs. She flies down the steps a few minutes later, wearing a sea green shirt with ruffles all down the front, a sea-foam white bubble skirt, and sea green heels to match her shirt, as well as pearl jewelry. She looks like the definition of a woman from District 4 now, with the high-end jewelry our district can afford.

"Alright, let's go off to the reaping, then," Paul says, leading Mom and I out the door. In the warm air of District 4 hangs a thick anxiety, emanating mainly from the 12-year-olds who have the possibility of being reaped this year. I shake my head. Nobody, especially them, should be subject to this kind of torture.

Awful.

I head over to the check-in desk and get my finger pricked like every year. As soon as my blood is stamped onto the paper that says I've come this year, I am shoved by Peacekeepers to the crowd of children waiting to be selected for the Hunger Games. I take a spot away from all of the clumps of male eighteen-year-olds and look up at the stage, decorated for this year's events. I don't have much time to take everything in, though, because a demented Capitolite chooses now to take the stage, dressed in all aqua blue. It's quite ridiculous, to me, watching her trip over her heels every two seconds to get to the microphone. Her name is Reagania Kalootz from what I've heard. Odd name for an odd person.

"Hello, District Four! I am Reagania Kalootz! Happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be _ever_ in your favor!" she announces to the crowds of us, like we've been waiting all this time for _her._ Actually, no, we're waiting to see whose getting sent to their deaths this year. Anyway, she begins to launch into several speeches recited every reaping day. Many of us look bored; we've heard it all before and hear it months earlier every year in school. The only interesting part of it is hearing about the rebellion, how the districts gallantly waged war against the Capitol, and yet they still lost. It recounts the tale of the destruction of District 13, and they show footage of the remains.

It sickens me and interests me at the same time.

"Okay, District Four! It is time to select this year's tributes for the Twenty-third Annual Hunger Games! Ladies first, and may the odds be _ever_ in your favor!" Reagania says proudly when the footage is over. She _clack-clack-clacks_ over to the reaping bowl for the girls. Her fake-tanned hand drops into the bowl and she sifts through the papers, stirring them every which way until her fingers lock on one white slip, holding the death sentence for some girl I don't know.

Reagania lifts the slip out of the bowl, holding it high in the air for just a moment before bringing it down to eye-level so that she's able to read the name on the front of it.

"Jessica Leera!" Reagania shouts enthusiastically across the entire square. There is stirring from among the fourteens and a girl steps forward, eager, but slightly irritated, probably only because her Career training is cut four years short.

"I volunteer!" comes a cry from an eighteen-year-old girl with shoulder length blonde hair, a slight tan, green eyes, and an athletic build. She lunges forward, but I catch the hesitation behind it.

"Oh, we have a volunteer!" Reagania says excitedly, waving the girl onto the stage. The blonde proudly steps up there.

"What's your name and age miss?" Reagania asks, giving the girl the microphone.

"My name is Michelle Pratt and I am eighteen years old," the girl states.

Reagania goes into another whole gigantic speech about how pleasing it is to have yet another eager volunteer for death. It disgusts me to no end. When she's finished, she decides it's time to reap the boys. She clacks over to the boys' bowl and dips her hand in, taking much less time than she did for the girls when she pulls it out two seconds later. Carefully, she unfolds the little white paper and holds the name up again, and then proceeds to read it.

"Toby Wilkinson!"

Hey, guess what?

I'm Toby Wilkinson.

There is scuffling around me, and slowly a path is cleared for me to walk up to the stage.

I begin walking, feeling all eyes on me as I walk up the steps. I recognize Michelle from school, now. She loves being called Mickey and hates the Hunger Games. She and I seem to feel the same about this vile "game" the Capitol came up with.

Unless that doesn't have to happen, and someone volunteers.

Speaking of which…

Reagania seems nervous as she looks out into the crowd, waiting expectantly for a boy to step forward and shout that he'd like to volunteer as this year's tribute. But nobody ever steps forward. Reagania grabs the microphone, "Any volunteers?"

Everyone is dead silent.

Trying to recover from that fumble, Reagania proudly announces: "District Four, may I present to you, your tributes for the Twenty-third Annual Hunger Games!" She then instructs Mickey and I to shake hands. We do so promptly, and then we are taken into custody.

* * *

**Oh, gosh guys, I'm sorry that took so long to get posted. FF deleted the submission form where the majority of the entries are. Luckily, I'd copied all of the entries into Microsoft, so I still have them. I was looking for inspiration, plus we got dumped with homework. **

**But it's out now!**

**District 5 will be up…sometime…lol. **


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